Ash frowned. So that was why Charlie had been lifting boxes and stocking books the other day instead of some high-school kid.

“But we’ve realized that we can’t and don’t want to keep doing that,” Charlie interjected. “My body reminded me of that this week.”

“Right,” Grace continued. “We want to be able to savor our retirement years, to slow down and go on vacations, to reap the rewards of all that we’ve worked for. We can’t do that if we run ourselves into the ground before we ever get a chance.”

“Can you hire a general manager?” Kincaid asked. “Just be the owners?”

“General managers are expensive, and there’s still a lot involved in ownership,” Grace explained. “And I feel like it’s just…time. I think we’ve held onto it more for nostalgia than for anything else these last few years. I can still picture Graham toddling through the aisles and pulling all the books off the shelves when we first stocked the store.” Her eyes misted even though a tender smile stayed in place.

“I also remember you, Kincaid, walking in there that first day and demanding a big book to read, your little blond ponytail sitting on top of your head like an exclamation point. And you, Ash, so sweet and hardworking, determined to read a pile of books each week so you could make good recommendations. It’s a scrapbook of our lives in a lot of ways.”

Ash swallowed hard, his throat burning.

“But memories are in our heads and in our hearts. I don’t need the physical place to hold them. I have them all in here.” Grace pressed a hand to her chest. “Which is why we’ve decided to sell the business.”

Ash’s heart dropped into his stomach and a hundred protests jumped to his lips, but Kincaid was the first to voice what was in his head.

“Sell?” she said, a hairline fracture of panic in her voice. “You can’t sell the store. It’s…who you are. It’s…memories. Not just yours. So many people’s. It’s part of this town.”

Ash glanced her way, seeing the earnestness on her face, the heartbreak. Another loss handed to her. He knew Kincaid had grown up in that store. He hadn’t fallen in love with it until he was around twelve, when she’d dragged him from his usual spot at the library and introduced him to the wonders of The Stuffed Shelf. Before that, he’d figured why bother since his parents would never have given him money to buy books.

His father wouldn’t want to encourage his son’s “weird, loner habit.” Boys should play outside. Boys should be involved in sports. Boys should be the star on their father’s football team. But even with Ash’s later start with The Stuffed Shelf, the store occupied a special spot in his memory bank, too—both happy and sad memories resided there. It was the first place he’d ever felt like he truly belonged.

“Are you sure that’s the only way?” Ash asked. “There’s got to be some other option.”